


Archeress's Birthday gifts 2012

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:19:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday gift for<em> maeglin</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Death of Atarinkë- Gift for maeglin

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Prompt was;"I'd like something about Curufinwë (Atarinke, not Feanaro) in Valinor - preferablybefore the tragedy at Aqualonde."

* * *

**The Death of Atarinkë**

"Let me try, Grandfather"

Mahtan looked down at his grandson, seeing a bright light in the half grown elf's eyes "What did you say, Atarinke?"

The boy went to answer but frowned and stamped his foot "I'm _Curufinwë_ , not Atarinkë _._ "

Mahtan sighed, bitterness thick on the exhalation. With great deliberation he set down his hammer and tied up the billows before walking around to the other side of the anvil. He stood in front of his grandson and stared at him.

"Do you care so little for your mother that you would cast off the name she gave you?"

The ellon didn't even blink "All the others use their _amilessë,_ but I want to be different. Even Mother's name for me acknowledges my likeness to Father, and I choose to use his name above all others for that reason."

"In doing so you ostracise those of your kin who your father is bitter with, indeed you even push your brothers away..." He frowned down at the other elf "You are the fifth son, _Atarinkë_ _ **,**_ not the heir, do not boast of rank above your abilities..." 

"I do no worse in holding my father name than Finwë did naming his other son."

Mahtan held his temper, but it took effort "Cease this anger... It avails as little as that of your father on the wedding of Indis." Slowly he turned back to the anvil and began to pump the billows again, raising the heat of the fire " I will teach smith craft to my Atarinkë, but not to Curufinwë." He waited for a long moment, but his ears only heard the crash of overturned metal and the slam of the smithy door.

The master-smith sighed again, this one tinged with despair. His eyes didn't see the flames that leapt in the forge fire, though they did see flames. The flames of an angry fëa, burning its hröa to bitterness, vengeance twisting all the fine skills of art into skills of violence and war. 

  _And now my grandson follows the same path, drawn like a moth to flames,ensnared by his father, binding himself by fëa to some horrid, fiery destiny._

He shivered despite the heat and began to hammer at the metal, smashing it flat again and removing the _tîw_ from its front. It was meant to be a Begetting Day gift, but now there was no reason to finish it. 

For Atarinkë was dead.


	2. A True Dragon- August

For _Anglachel_ who wanted a story of Smaug pre-Hobbitt

* * *

He lifted his head, swinging it side to side and scenting the air. It was sharp on his nostrils, tingied with ice. But there was nothing unusual about that, here everything smelt of cold and ice. He sighed, feeling the fire in his chest ache and scorch, wanting to burn. Was this all he could be, a skulker, silent killer, sorry flash in the night.

He bared his teeth in a silent snarl of anger and unfairness. There should be more, there should be worship and gold. Was he not after all, the son of Glaurung and grandson of Ancalagon, the only one with such a pedigree, the hope of his kin. His egg had been missed when Melkor was turned out, perhaps mistaken for a rock. But some damage had been done never the less, for when he hatched his scales where malformed, leaving a bare patch over his heart. Yet in all other respects he was a magnificent heir, his size magnificent for his relatively small age, his scales a chain mail coat of honey-gold. A true dragon...

There was just one thing. He had no treasure, no lair, no fear was inspired by his name. Slowly he blinked, turning his head again. Then he stretched his wings, listening as the joints opened with satisfying cracks. Rhythmically he flapped them, bunching power in his back legs before springing like liquid gold into the sky. Airborne, thinking was easier, the cares of the land disappeared and he thought as a dragon should think.

The land lay out below him like a picture, such as he had heard some of the older dragons talk of when their Maiar halves were conscious. And on the edge of his vision he saw a great towering peak. It wasn't the Ered Luin, or any of the other peaks he had heard of. After a moment the name came to him.

Erebor. The Lonely Mountain.

Home to the Dwarf King... and, he chuckled slightly, his hoard of gold.

_Ahhh_ , the sigh was long and luxurious. Slowly, almost idely, he turned his long body southwards and began to beat his wings in earnest. Now would the Dwarves learn to fear him, create a reputation that would be whispered in taverns with a glance over the shoulder.

And himself, well he would glory in that knowledge and stretch out on his bed of gold and craftsmanship... a true dragon.


	3. Keeping Oath- Cuinwen November

"Bergil, why's there a mound on the plain?"

The half-man half-boy looked down at his charge, still marvelling he'd been entrusted with the little prince. Slowly he dropped down to the boy's level and awkwardly hoisted the child onto one hip so he could have a better view. "Do the adults ever talk about the war?"

The three year old shook his head, black hair bouncing

Bergil smiled "That mound is the resting place of one of the greatest men, Eldarion, as great as your father and Steward Faramir. Theoden King lies there... He was the king of the Rohirrim, as Eomer is now. Carefully he set the boy down and lead him to the seat nearby, boosting him up to sit on the smooth stone.

Once, before you were born, when I was still a young boy and a steward still ruled, there was a great battle on that plain. Theoden rode at the head of 6,000 spears, to rescue our beleaguered city... The army he faced numbered 21 times his own"

The boy's eyes were like dinner plates, and Bergil paused, knowing his every word was held onto.

"Now Theoden had known before he left Dunharrow that his spears would not be enough, though he did not yet know the weight of his opposition. But he had given loyalty to Gondor, and he would not betray us."

He turned away, looking out over the plains "Tis well that he kept to that, else none of us would be here now"

"For this tomorrow, he gave his today"

He thought it was Eldarion speaking, but the voice was too mature. Instead The king stood beside him, Faramir on the other side. As a trio they raised their hands to their hearts

"We will remember them."


End file.
